


But Joy Cometh In the Morning

by MJ (mjr91)



Series: "Through a Glass Darkly" cycle [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after the night before. "Non, ne je regrette rien."</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Joy Cometh In the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Holmesslash Yahoo Group, I believe in a challenge. Not explicit, but if the theme makes you uncomfortable, it's best avoided.

I awaken early, as I always do no matter the occasion. There is something – someone – whose head rests on the pillow next to mine; although the room is dark, I need no light to tell me whose head it is. His form and his scent are nearly as familiar to me as my own, as they have been for all of our lives.

Can I help but recall the night before? Crystal glasses set aside as hands, then arms, then lips, met. Hands at each other’s collars, in one another’s hair. The Greeks had far less clothing of which to divest themselves before passion spoke to passion; neckties, collars, braces, and all the rest of masculine appurtenance required in our era are nothing more than obstacles to reclaiming the state in which heaven saw fit to bring us to birth.

There could be no doubt last night that we were raised with a classical education; for all his many flaws our father saw fit, at least, to see that we were fluent in the ancient languages and in the great writings thereof, which have given many a youth more of an education in the deeper mysteries of Eros than their schoolmasters must realize.

I am not sure of the degree of his experience, although he, as well as I, must surely have succumbed at university to the temptations of some beautiful boy or another – I suspect either Musgrave or Trevor, if not both, in his case; in mine, it was a certain then-young professor whose name I now cannot repeat without a shudder for reasons unrelated to that fact. Clearly, however, he is no more a novice in the intimacies of the Thebans than am I. The ways of our Greek forebears were known to both of us last night, and their great mysteries were communicated between us without words. None were needed in the first place, for we have never really needed words between ourselves to understand each other.

I feel him stir, as I watch him in my mind’s eye. I am still able to visualize the beauty of his form last night, coming to me in my – in our, dare I hope – bed, touching me not merely with his body but with his mind, and, blasphemous as it must sound to the Bishop, his soul. Blasphemy be damned anyway, for as my department is well aware, the Bishop himself is no stranger to the mythic dance of Jupiter and Ganymede. 

The crisis was mutual, both of us reaching that indescribable moment of utter ecstasy at the same moment, his voice forming my name close to my ear. I have thought little of my name in the past, but as of that moment I find a charm in it, at least when it comes from his mouth. 

For this past night, it is worth risking all; it is worth risking what happened last year to Wilde. I should prefer not to pick oakum in Pentonville as Wilde does, I confess, but if it were the price to pay for those stolen hours, I should pay it gladly, even though, surely, a night such as this one was cannot pass between us again.

And surely this—if it indeed happened, for the logic of morning tells me that this must have been a dream; such things do not happen – cannot be allowed to happen again. For all my twisting of logic and even of emotion in order to allow us to reach this place, I realize that the law of nature as well as of man condemns certain things for a reason. The Bishop would no doubt say that the sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon the children, although between we two Holmes offspring, there undoubtedly shall be neither a third nor a fourth generation as neither of us appears to be inclined in such fashion,

I scarcely notice his full rousing until he speaks. “Good morning, my dear Mycroft.”

“I trust, Sherlock, that you slept well.”

He begins to sit up, stretching luxuriously. “Rarely better. For all my protestations to the contrary to poor Watson, I must admit that certain kinds of release are most beneficial to mind and body, which makes the process of deduction a far less challenging matter.”

The mind of a Holmes should never reel, although mine does so now. Perhaps this, and not last night, should be the phantasm, for I clearly hear him state that we did, indeed, do as I recall, and that he appears to be entirely satisfied with the fact. 

But I compose myself and I smile. “I could not agree more. One rests far more soundly afterwards, and there is little better for the composure of the mind before setting off on a task. But speaking of Watson, what shall you tell him when you arrive back at Baker Street?” Watson, after all, is the moral compass of us all. If he knew of this, I should well be disgraced in his eyes, though it is certain that he would find some way to justify Sherlock's actions under any and all circumstances.

A charming laugh from him. “If I leave particularly early, I shall rub my face and coat with dirt in the street and profess to him that I was in disguise all night while following a miscreant of some sort. If it is later, I was following such a one and chose to sleep in one of my boltholes around the city near to where I lost his tracks.”

“I am glad to see you are prepared for the occasion.” True; he is of course used to dissembling, even with his bosom friend and amanuensis.

“I am always prepared. Would you prefer, by the way, that I situate one of my lodgings – preferably one with a less inquisitive and more tolerant landlady – as a retreat we might both use? My frequent overnight presence in this building is sure to excite some form of comment.” May I say that I am amazed that he takes our encounter as a first one, and not as a discrete event, never to be repeated or ever to be discussed? I have hardly dared, these past hours, allow myself to contemplate that this has been more than a fortunate illusion, a trick of the mind; surely this is but proof that I am correct in that hypothesis.

But I allow myself, for the moment, to indulge this moment of unreality. “Scarcely, Sherlock. You are my brother, after all; what is more natural than that you should stay overnight when you visit until some late hour?”

“Prudence is wise.”

“So is comfort,” I remind him. “I have been in your boltholes, Sherlock, and none of them promise to be repositories of comfortable beds, clean linen, or decent wine, let alone the blessing of silence. One may be prudent in this building and still find oneself able to enjoy the amenities civilization grants us. You need merely rise early, as you have this morning, and depart.”

“A point,” he concedes. “If, after all, the result of such activity is to be rest and quietude, and thus greater clarity of mind, one should perhaps choose conditions conducive to those ends. One might even conclude that under such conditions, the entire experiment is preferable even to cocaine.” The sun is beginning to filter through the curtains, and I see the outline of a small, satisfied smile on his unshaven face. “Neruda plays a Mendelssohn concerto next week. Perhaps our attendance at that along with a respectable supper will prove to be additional enhancement to the desired outcome.”

“Sherlock, you know I loathe public events.” I do, with every fiber of my being, yet I acknowledge a fondness of my own for Neruda’s performance. May I admit as well that I am nonetheless awed by this invitation? The thought that Sherlock would care to extend our weekly meeting that has now gone far beyond dinner with this sort of intellectually stimulating entertainment as a prelude to more intimate events suggests that he is perhaps far less immune than commonly believed – even by himself – to certain emotions he claims to abhor and avoid.

I have erred; I can see that he is crestfallen. I should not have spoken as I did. That what passed between us should please him, yet my words at this moment regarding my irritation with the public sphere could destroy this change in the relationship between us is one of the great ironies of life. He responds sorrowfully. “Please accept my apologies. I know that you are fond of the Mendelssohn.”

Some things are more important than even my detestation of the public arena. “No, no, Sherlock. You misunderstand me. I was not quite done speaking.” I care little whether he believes that or not. “Although I loathe public events, as you well know, I should be delighted to attend with you. I have not normally had the pleasure of your company when I am out, and the lack of a suitable companion for such things is undoubtedly part of my disdain for the public arena.” 

The words may be truer than not. I despise sharing my great pleasures with those incapable of appreciating their subtleties, which encompasses almost everyone I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Only Sherlock… and a certain professor I once believed I knew well… have had the acuity to comprehend such things as I do. I have no other truly suitable companion.

He brightens considerably; surely it is his countenance, and not the sun’s slow rise, that currently provides additional illumination in my bedchamber. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. “Splendid.” There is a pause. “My dear Mycroft… if I may be so bold… might I indulge myself in a small experiment, perhaps at your expense?”

I am intrigued, as one always must be by his scientific curiosity. “Certainly, my dear boy.”

His arm reaches under the bedclothes and down, down to my member that is, as is usual of a morning, engorged as a matter of basic biological function. His strong hand surrounds it. “Ah, Mycroft, I see that we share a condition. It is not so late in the morning, I believe, that we should not alleviate it together, is it?”

If I do dream now, at least I dream well. It is, most undoubtedly, not so late at all.


End file.
